


The Coat

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mages and Templars, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: The Inquisitor meets with an Orlesian delegation and his choice of outfit upsets Cullen and Josephine. Dorian can't decide whether or not to be amused.





	The Coat

Dorian leaned on the castle ramparts and watched the Inquisitor and Josephine lead a delegation of masked nobles through the lower bailey. The group stopped in the shadow of the newly constructed mage tower and gazed up at it.

The wind drowned out anything the visiting dignitaries were saying, but Dorian could easily guess.

"All zees mages in one place? Wiz no Templars?"

"Surely you intend to return ze rebels to ze Circle once Corypheus iz dealt with?"

"You don’t allow zem to fight, do you? Don’t you think zat unwise?"

Josephine clasped her hands together with a smile, bowing slightly at the waist and giving what were no doubt very convincing reassurances.

Trevelyan, for his part, loomed like a vulture behind them with his arms crossed. He was wearing his duster—the black one with the high collar that framed his head and gave him the now familiar silhouette of the Inquisitor. It was not a Circle mage’s robes but an apostate’s coat, designed to be worn on the road and in battle.

That made Dorian smile. Josephine had objected vehemently to the choice, but Trevelyan had won that argument and met the delegation from Val Chevin dressed as an unmistakable outlaw and heretic. The intent was as brazen as it was honest: to impart on these nobles, whose patronage the Inquisition was depending on, exactly what kind of mage he was.

It was a gamble, but like so many of Trevelyan’s gambles one that paid off. A woman wearing a butterfly mask directed a question at him, and Trevelyan inclined his head a fraction of a degree. Dorian could not see his eyes, but he knew from the way the Orlesians fidgeted that he was giving them that dead man’s stare of his. Then his lips moved, and the assembled Orlesians laughed.  

 _Like mice eating out of the talon of a dragon_. They were afraid of him, and oh so desperate for his approval. Dorian would have felt sorry for them if it wasn’t so delicious.

“How are they doing?”

Dorian looked up. Cullen was standing behind him.

“Josephine tells them what they want to hear, and the Inquisitor gives them a taste of taboo,” said Dorian. “Security and risk, investment and opportunity, comfort and titillation. The perfect waltz. Is there a reason you’re not down there with them?”  

“Leliana said I lacked the charm for this sort of thing.”

“For what it’s worth, she’s hardly one to talk.”

Cullen drew up closer to the wall. “I’m surprised Josephine let him wear that coat. She argued with him about it all morning. Do you think the Orlesians have been won over?”

“Hard to say. If they haven’t, they soon will be.”  

“You sound as if you have faith in that.”

“In the few months since we came here, the Inquisition has made more allies than anyone could have hoped for and gotten the attention of every lord in Thedas,” said Dorian. “He hasn’t failed us yet.”

“No,” said Cullen. “Not yet.”  

Dorian gave him a sidelong glance. The words were uncharacteristically bitter. “Something on your mind?”

“It’s not something I should share.”

“But you will, because propriety never stopped you before.”

Cullen gave a wry smile. In the past few weeks, he and Dorian had become chess opponents and something close to friends. The Commander had gradually let his guard down around Dorian and, out of loneliness or clumsiness, accepted him as a confidante.

“It concerns a diplomatic matter. Not this one with Val Chevin, but something else.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’re courting King Markus of Nevarra,” said Cullen. “We believe that most of the Venatori supply trains are coming south from Tevinter through his borders and would like to send our forces to intercept them.”

“Let me guess, King Markus is not fond of the idea of Inquisition soldiers marching through his countryside and enacting vigilante justice?”

“More or less. Though the issue runs deeper than that.”

Cullen stepped up beside Dorian and rested his arms on the stone. The wind ruffled the fur of his collar.

“King Markus is very devout. He and the Nevarran nobility disapprove of many of the decisions the Inquisitor has made and refuse to recognize us as a legitimate power. We have spies planted in the Nevarran court, but we need diplomats and ambassadors to make real headway, and those channels remain closed.”

“I see. And what is King Markus’s complaint exactly?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Below, Josephine led the nobles to the door of the main atrium of the mage tower. As she opened the door, a shower of sparks shot out over the nobles’ heads, and the masked men and women screamed and ducked. Josephine, giving them a sympathetic smile, waved them to their feet. Trevelyan looked on stonily as ever, bringing up the rear as they entered into the tower. His long fingers caught on the door and tugged it closed behind them.

“Let me guess,” said Dorian. “The good king wasn’t thrilled to learn the Herald of Andraste allied himself with the mage rebellion?”

“To put it lightly.”

Dorian shook his head. The pointless, breathtaking ignorance of the South never failed to exhaust him. 

“I’m sorry,” said Dorian. “Did I miss the part where Nevarra isn’t a country run by state-approved necromancy?”

“The Nevarran crown has always leaned anti-mage, but is intimately entwined with the Mortalitasi and relies on them for its funerary rites,” said Cullen. “As such, the Mortalitasi have always been granted special privileges that set them apart from the Circle. In order to become Mortalitasi, one must either be a member of the royal family or be a vetted member of the Loyalist fraternity. Needless to say, the death mages never approved of the rebellion.” 

“Or of us.”

“No,” said Cullen. “Though I dare say we would have more sway with them if Cassandra applied pressure to her family. Even I would bite that belt if it got us a whisper in King Markus’s ear.”

Dorian hummed. He was beginning to perceive how the argument came full circle. “And you blame the Inquisitor for all this?”

“Blame isn’t the right word. It’s all well and good that he wants to make things better for certain people, but if you go around challenging the way the world works, you’re going to drive away allies. And we can’t afford that.”

There was something being unsaid. Dorian's stomach clenched. “Are we in trouble?”

“We’re always in trouble,” said Cullen. “Keeping an operation of this size from falling apart is a daily struggle.” They were alone on the parapet, but Cullen still lowered his voice. “Our coffers are empty, Dorian.”

Dorian felt the ground unmoor slightly beneath his feet. He knew the Inquisition was a ragtag operation—it had been ever since Haven, but it always seemed to run seamlessly on the surface. The castle had been reconstructed, and the soldiers were well-armored and well-trained. They hosted galas, parties, invited dignitaries to go hawking and on hunts. The idea that something as massive and well-oiled as the Inquisition could be bankrupt was more than a little terrifying.

“Does anyone else know?” he whispered.

“Only those who need to,” said Cullen.

“How are we staying afloat?”

“Hand to mouth. Threats, bribes, wiping out minor houses and seizing their assets. We should be worrying about whether or not we can defeat Corypheus, not whether or not we can feed our troops.”

Dorian slowly turned to face him. “And you think we would be in a better place if not for Trevelyan?”

“I think we would be in a better place if he wasn’t so proud,” said Cullen.

Dorian’s fingers curled on the stone wall.

“You’d rather he play the part? Be a good little mage and follow along meekly?”

“You’re smarter than that,” said Cullen.

“Apparently not, because I need you to explain it to me.”

"I don’t want him to be meek. I don’t _need_ him to be meek. What I need him to do is understand that all of us play roles we don’t like. You think Madame de Fer believes ever word she says about the Chantry? Maker, Josephine argued with him for three hours about that coat of his, and it would have cost him nothing to wear a robe for a day.”

“You make it sound as if he’s a fool,” said Dorian.

“Perhaps he is.”

Dorian’s jaw clenched.

“He’s doing the best he can,” said Cullen. “I know that. We’re all doing the best we can. I just wonder sometimes if we made our fatal mistake when he allied us with the mage rebellion. We built him up to be larger than life, to the point that we forget that he’s just a man. He misjudges the same as anyone.”

Dorian said nothing. He no longer felt smug, or in want of ale, or pleased. He felt hollow and unnerved. Not the least because he had always seen Trevelyan as he had a few minutes ago in the yard—

Imposing. Confident. Incapable of failure.

“He hasn’t doomed us so far,” said Dorian. He was surprised his voice came out level. “And we’re a young organization. Things will get easier, in time.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am right. About him at least."

Cullen looked at him sidelong. There was a question there, but the Commander thankfully refrained from asking it. He would find out sooner or later. Dorian might not have been a gossip, but the rest of the castle surely was.

The twin doors to the tower creaked open. Josephine’s voice carried up to them, the nobles following in a bustle behind her. Trevelyan walked side by side with a masked baron—the baron walking twice as fast to keep up with the Inquisitor’s long stride—as they made their way up the path to the great hall. The nobles listened politely to Josephine, but they had eyes only for the Inquisitor.

“And now for the kill,” said Cullen. “Josephine works best over dinner. Maker only knows how she manages to handle the vipers while remembering which fork to use.”

Dorian gave the Commander a pat on the shoulder. “Never say that out loud in my presence again.”

 

* * *

  

That evening, Dorian closed his books and set out for the tavern. He left the library by the south door and took the staircase at a clip.

Inside Herald's Rest, the after-dinner crowd was starting to file in from the great hall. Smoke clung to the rafters, and Maryden strummed her lute on her barrel. The air was warm as an oven and leeched the cold off Dorian’s skin and clothes.

The stairs creaked under his tread as he mounted them. He was aware of a dozen eyes following him as he did. He strode up to the second-story hall to the last door on the right. There was a minor locking ward on the doorknob: a bit of coaxing, and it sprang open. 

Trevelyan sat at the room’s only table, his boots kicked up on the opposite chair and a single tankard before him. He did not glance up from the book in his lap. 

“As many times as we meet here, and you never manage to bring up drinks for both of us.” Dorian shut the door shut behind him. “I know you get them for free.”

Dorian waved at Trevelyan’s feet. When he didn’t move, Dorian yanked the chair out from under them. Their metal heels struck the floor hard, and Dorian made a show of dusting off the chair before he sat down.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

Trevelyan lifted it to show him the front cover. The title was in Orlesian and translated to: Insects and Arachnids of the Frostbacks.

Dorian put a finger on the cusp of the flagon and tipped it. One look at the blonde ale inside and he set it back down. “The reason being?”

“The Comtesse de Chavigny showed me her butterfly collection over dinner. In thirty years, she has catalogued over five-hundred butterflies from across Thedas. It is the quite the labor of love.”

“I’m sorry, I think I just fell asleep with my eyes open.”

“She described for me a Fade-touched butterfly she once hunted in the lower Frostbacks during an expedition with her husband. The crushed wings of this butterfly are said to be used by the Avvar to induce a powerful trance in possessed mages, by which an invasive spirit can be drawn out of the host. Such a butterfly is even rumored to create temporary fluctuations in the Veil, and can revert mutations or misshapenness of the flesh cause by possession.”

“That would be remarkable if true.”

“Sky Watcher has never heard of such a thing, but he’s willing to serve as emissary to a friendly clan to make inquiries. With the Comtesse.”

Dorian thought back to the woman with the butterfly mask on the lawn that morning. Her dress had been wide and ruffled and very poofy. “An odd couple.”

“She wants an adventure,” said Trevelyan. 

“And in return?”

“In return, she loans us the use of her canal locks on the River Damine. Our supply boats will be able to reach the Exalted Plains in half the time.”

“And all it took was suffering an old woman’s tales of butterfly hunts. Bravo.”

“Val Chevin was impressed with our progress. We have their confidence for now.”  

Dorian drummed his fingers on the table. “I watched you give a tour of the mage tower this afternoon.”

“I know,” said Trevelyan. “I saw you.”

“I was up there talking to Cullen. He shared some intriguing information with me. The Inquisition is bankrupt?”

Trevelyan did not seem surprised by the statement. He was rarely surprised or alarmed or afraid, at least not where other people could see him.

“It’s a fallow period,” said Trevelyan. “We’re no more desperate and impoverished than we have been.”

“Cullen made it sound dire.”

“That’s the Fereldan in him. He doesn’t trust in debts and promises so he looks at a ledger full of red numbers and has a nervous breakdown. He’s been like this since Haven.”

“I see.” Dorian wanted to cling to Trevelyan’s words like a lifeline, but he wasn’t sure if that was wise. Trevelyan was charming, Trevelyan was clever, and Trevelyan was a liar. He was not in the habit of misleading people but he had no qualms about manipulating them. Dorian had always accepted that about him, even knowing that he himself might be treated as a pawn one day. “He made it seem like we would be in a better, more secure position if you were not so….”

“If I wasn’t me?”

“He made it sound like you not wearing a Circle robe was the best metaphor for it.”

Trevelyan brushed his knuckles across the table and grabbed his drink with a limp-wristed clap of his palm. “We all have our ways of playing the Game.”  

“So menacing,” said Dorian. “Though he seemed very sure of himself.”

“Cullen was a Templar. He doesn’t understand that Orlais would despise me no matter what kind of mage I am. He would have me beg for their respect when they have none to give.”

“And this way?”

Trevelyan took a long drink. “This way my weakness is my strength. Let them think me a curious monster—it’s one more way to swindle them out of their coin.”

 _Proud_ , thought Dorian, with pain and a mingling of his own pride. _Too proud._

“King Markus hasn’t budged yet, has he?”

“No,” said Trevelyan, and set the cup down. “But he will.”

Laughter drifted upstairs from the tavern. The sun was setting now and stretching orange rectangles across the floor. A white cat strode across the castle wall beyond the window, its tail raised behind it like a question mark.

“You wouldn’t lie to me about this sort of thing, would you?”

“To you?” said Trevelyan. “No.”

Dorian studied him over his fingers. He saw him now as he always did: the man in his apostate’s coat. The butcher, the statesman, the general. The unknown and the intimate. Dorian pushed his chair back. He came around the small table and stood close beside the Inquisitor.  He took the corner of coat’s high collar between two fingers and rubbed the fabric.

“It’s an excellent coat,” he said.

Trevelyan caught his wrist. “It is.”  

“I prefer it to those Chantry smocks they make you poor wretches wear down here.”

“That makes two of us,” said Trevelyan. He pursed his lips against the back of Dorian’s hand.  “Has he made you doubt me?”

Dorian would not insult the Inquisitor by pretending to misunderstand the question. “No. Though I am as capable as anyone of being taken in by you."

“I've noticed,” said Trevelyan.

It was said in jest, but a prickle of unease ran up Dorian’s neck.

 _Either you are as brilliant as I think you are_ , he thought, _or we are all a castle of fools, myself first among them._

“Tomorrow,” said Trevelyan, "we'll drop off a Circle robe at Cullen’s quarters and order him to wear it for the day. See how long it takes for the itchiness to drive him mad.”

Dorian brought their hands up to his own lips. “Buy me a drink first.”  


End file.
